Darien's seething, heaving, breathing built. She wrenched back the hilt of her blade, or tried, except Clownmuffle held it fixed. Although Darien fidgeted, the blade stood still, until it looked less like a real object and more like something painted onto the background.

"I know you," said Clownmuffle. "Bride. Too formalistic? Traditional, the word. And unfitting for someone so young, though you've grown. Perhaps that unfittingness fits. A preteen wife, as we've all been wed so young to this unexpected lifestyle. What did I mark you before? Three out of ten? I'll revise: Four out of ten. One day, however, you'll be a woman, and then it'll just be so dull. Savor this relative apex."